jacknight

STACY 1 © Stacy Cameron 2008

My name is Stacy.

I am Jack’s submissive; or I should say; one of Jack’s submissives. I hate sharing Jack, of course, but find some solace in knowing that Jack is very reluctant to share me.
Perhaps one of the things that makes me a submissive is how much asymmetrical sexual situations arouse me. Sorry, that’s an understatement, they make me itch. Arousal can be quenched quite easily; put fingers on clitoris, one, two, three, orgasm, arousal gone. But the itch remains.

I trust all submissives know some form of the itch. It is the itch that makes me caress my thigh with one hand as I walk down the street. It is the itch that makes me purposefully drop small objects when I am wearing tight jeans; giving me an excuse to squat down-- and while picking up my pencil, eraser, lipstick or whatever, rub my finger down the seam of my crotch. That’s the itch. I guess you could give the itch a cool-sounding technical name; how does “heightened sexual awareness” sound? We could use the acronym to sound more “bdsmy” as in, “hey sub, how’s your HSA today?”

I suppose that being Jack’s sub—one of Jack’s subs—at some level was about exploring my sexuality in Jack’s world. That’s the standard explanation isn’t it? It’s a nice explanation as far as it goes, but that’s like saying a good caning is explained by the application of sufficient trauma to my cheeks to turn them, rosy—then red. Sure it’s an explanation but it falls far short of the essence of the cane on my trembling but eager buttocks, how it quickens my heart, nipples and wetness. No, being Jack’s sub is about the itch.

Jack taught me the itch and made it constant. And that is one reason why I am writing this blog. To get rid of the itch. The itch that won’t go away. The itch that still drives me crazy. The itch that can no longer be scratched. The itch that can no longer be scratched because Jack, god damn it, no longer….is.

And because Jack no longer is, I not only itch, I ache. Ache in my stomach, my heart, my soul—if I have one. And that is far worse than even the itch. By writing this blog, I want the ache to stop. Ache…stop…now. Will confessing really and truly stop the itch and the ache? Perhaps it a rather naive affectation from my catholic upbringing. (Catholics do make the best subs you know. ) I surely hope this works. The ache is too much to bear, so painful that I tend to wallow in silliness to distract myself, and without distraction, the abyss.

Before Jack, I was your average dopey suburban house-wife. We were Dinks—dual income no kids--living in northern New Jersey….